


Baby, Come Home

by blookythecat22



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Sad Ending, Suicide Attempt, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, really kind of a downer overall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 10:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16157246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blookythecat22/pseuds/blookythecat22
Summary: Deadpool and his struggles with his own broken mind after Vanessa's death.





	Baby, Come Home

**Author's Note:**

> So this is really short and depressing but I have Jet Pack Blues stuck in my head and this is what I felt like writing. Enjoy?

Wade spit in the street and stuck a cigarette in his mouth. It was looking like rain, a rattling in the clouds where they hung heavy in the sky like dirty curtains and he had that nasty metallic taste in his mouth that wouldn’t go away and that headache from the pressure building itself into a storm. 

He pulled his hood out farther and wrapped a scarred hand around the flame of his lighter to shield it from the wind that whipped down the street, making the trash scurry down the road like tumbleweeds. 

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” Wade answered.

“Who?”

“Just me.” He’d spoken a little louder this time, and an old woman taking her trash out stopped to give him a dirty look. 

Was she the one talking to him? 

Oh. Nobody was fucking talking to him. Wade took a drag of his cigarette and let it burn in his lungs, _charred black, black as night, black black black—-_

“Who’s there?” _Not real not real not real._

“You’re gonna get cancer if you keep up that dirty habit, you know.” 

He was pretty sure it was the old lady who had spoken that time, but he didn’t answer anyway. _Just get home._

_It’s not home without her._

_It belonged to me first._

Or had it? He had a memory of standing with her in a sea of cardboard boxes, of dragging a futon up the creaky stairs, cramped walls and out-of-breath swearing. Arguing about where to put the chair. Which chair? Who’d won? 

 _Doesn’t fucking matter, probably not real anyway._ What the hell had he been trying to do again? He was standing in the street, the butt of the cigarette burning his fingers. 

 _Home_. 

 

Wade threw the door of his house open, let it slam against the wall. 

It was loud, too loud, the walls here were too thin, _neighbors will complain, shouldn’t be making noise at this hour_....was it too late, or too early? _Never mind. Fuck ‘em._

Something smelled acrid and heavy in the air, and it took him a second to see the pan on the stove. He’d been heating up water before he left, or maybe it had been coffee... _left for where?_

_I should remember that, shouldn’t I?_

Whatever had been in the pan, it had burned black against the bottom— _charred black, black as night, black black black black—-_

_Shut up._

The burner shut off with a click, and he sat on the floor, lit up another cigarette. 

 _Why can’t I ever remember?_ He was starting to forget her, he could feel it—or not forget, no, she had put too heavy of a dent in his mind for that, but...she was slipping away nonetheless, the memories of her getting tangled by his addled mind, like a cat playing with a ball of string. 

He couldn’t remember her whole, she was just little fragments. 

He remembered her the way he saw her when they were making love, in fine, overwhelming detail. The curve of her lip, the peach fuzz on her cheek, a soft brush of hair, laughing white teeth and the very best smell. 

He could see the sleeve of her sweater slipping down her arm, painted nails rested against his forearm when she wanted to tell him something, could feel the way his hand fit in the spot where her ass met her thighs. 

He yanked his wallet out of his back pocket and pulled out the Polaroid he’d taken of her, stared at her face, trying to put the pieces together. _Puzzle pieces. Puzzle pieces with funny edges._

There she was, smile sweet as toaster strudel and eyes brighter than highway flares, gaze fixed on him like he was interesting, laughing like he made her happy. 

He could see her, curled up in the chair by the window. He could smell her. 

Close enough to taste but too far to reach. 

“How could you?”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Wade answered to the empty room. 

“How could you?”

“I tried. I’m sorry. I tried.” Were they talking about the same thing?

“How could you?” 

“I can’t remember.” Could never remember. Can’t ever remember. 

“How could you?”

“I’m sorry!” Wade realized he’d shouted, leaned back against the oven door, breathing hard all of a sudden. Where had the cigarette gone? 

_Can’t remember. Light up another._

_I’m gonna burn my house down someday if I keep that up._

_Good. Charred black, black as—-_

_Oh, shut up._

He walked to the window, trying to find the noise from the city, trying to block out the noise in his head. It was raining. 

When had that happened? It was heavy, such a heavy sound. Everything felt heavy. 

It drowned out his thoughts, smothered them like a lead blanket. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass. 

And when he opened his eyes again, he had no idea what time it was, but that wasn’t important because there she was. 

Standing on the street under the downpour, beneath her pink umbrella, staring up at him. 

She smiled. “Come home, baby.” There was a soft desperation in her voice, like she was whispering in his ear. 

“Vanessa?”

“Don’t you wanna come home? I’m lonely, baby.”

“I’m sorry baby, I love you.”

“I love you too, baby. Come home.”

“Okay. Hold on, I’m coming.” 

Wade turned around, searched the room. _Not real, not real—_

_Does it matter? I don’t wanna be here anyway._

_Not supposed to do that, never works anyway..._

_Maybe it will this time. How many bullets to the brain can one guy take?_

Wade grabbed the handgun out of his duffel bag, stuffed a fresh clip in with a snap. 

He set the cold muzzle between his teeth, against his tongue. It tasted heavy, like metal, like rain, like death— _please. I just wanna go home._

He felt the click of the mechanism against his jaw, felt the pain, a quiet whisper before the world went blissfully black. 

 

Wade woke up on his floor. _Morning or evening? What did I do this time?_

There was dried blood on the floor, he had a nasty, metallic taste in the back of his throat. There was a gun beside him— _oh. That again. Never works, idiot._

He stumbled up, shoved on his aching jaw, grit his teeth. It was dawn, the sky was pink but it was still raining, a heavy, dull, gray rain. 

She was standing there, again. In a long black coat, long black hair whipping in the wind. 

“Come home, baby.” 

Wade pressed his face against the glass, pressed a hand against the cold. 

The cold didn’t feel good anymore. Why couldn’t he touch her, just once? 

“Come home, baby.” 

Wade swallowed, stared down at the gun in his hand. “I can’t.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I went for a more serious approach to Wade's crazy because it's such a sad story, tried to put the reader in his head, tell me how I did?


End file.
